


(interruption)

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Blood Play, Daddy Issues, Dark fic, Dubious Consent, F/M, Jyn is NOT the one being attacked here, Knife Play, Possible Character Death, Sexual Violence, alternate endings, cock and cunt, domme!Jyn, i would never write that, mentions of childhood trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7083286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is the feminine interruption to the male history he’s trying to write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to onstraysod for being as excited about this ship as I am and fuelling all my Mendelsohn lust. And thank you to Kalibear for reading over this even though it's totally not her ship or possibly even fandom. This is so much better because you both read it and gave me such incisive feedback. Thank you!

She watches him for a long time. In the relative anonymity of the officer’s uniform, she moves on the perimeters and watches him.

He is the still alert centre of so much organised chaos. (she is the chaos he hasn’t seen yet.) The crew, the troopers and captains, the vast dark ship of weaponry and destruction revolves around him, this dead old white man in his shroud of white.

Does he know he’s dead already? Those weren’t her orders but wasn’t that the point of recruiting her? No. No, some things — most things — she does for herself, and as if the great white mother would protest when it’s done?

(you’re manipulated.)

It seems to take weeks but maybe it’s only days. She circles closer, loving the feel of predator rather than defensive prey. Another old white man flickers in the back of her head, cold eyes and unfeeling orders. Such cliché upon cliché. She sneers at her own banal trauma because what she is there to do but burn and burn everything down around her?

She dreams about him. He is not still in her dreams. The white cape swoops and curves through durasteel corridors, always moving away, away. She hates it but doesn’t need to move to follow. The dream moves her with — no, after him. She’s always behind him, glimpsing hard bootheel, the grim lined side of his face. He walks through nameless corridors of power, through bowels of star destroyers, through scorched fields of bodies and toppled machines, and she follows. He walks forever towards death and destruction, forever intent, and she follows, sometimes disciple, sometimes death herself.

For a long while, she never sees him speak. Not to the troopers, not to a captain or an officer. The generals arrive and report to him, and he listens, eyes lowered as if he’s there but not there. (like her.) He takes in information, utterly self-contained like the thing they’re building. (that’s no moon but it’s as cold as lifeless as he is, an inorganic child of his male mind.) And he gives nothing back, not for the longest time.

Then.

Some general has told him something, nothing over-familiar or even friendly, but something has amused him. And from her hiding in plain sight, she sees the small bright glint of eye, the subtle curve of his mouth.

When she gains access to his quarters, it’s in the slipstream between shifts. A swiped card, a quick dart, and she’s in. The door slides closed behind her, and she’s suddenly aware she’s in his space. Invaded this most inner sanctum.

Which, when she looks around as the air brightens, tells her nothing about him. There’s no sign that a human or sentient creature lives here, not even the nicest protocol droid. She moves through the few rooms, all grey walls and panels of dark transparisteel, feeling herself a dark fey female thing in this private space of dead white maleness. All the furniture is clean and minimal, defined edges everywhere. A rectangle of white and blue repeats in each room like a motif or an artwork. She stares at it, feeling like something’s being said to her but it’s not a language she knows.

Maybe all his secrets are locked away, concealed in the walls and hidden spaces. All the debris of a life, the weaknesses and shame. She passes her palm over this panel and that, seeking the whispers of quiet lives. Are there collections of filthy holovids? Contraband alcohol or hallucinogenic substances? No, it’d be collections of Old Republic artefacts. He seems the type to hunt down old fragile things no one knows how to appreciate anymore, maybe ancient weapons, maybe texts, things to read and never touch, to keep preserved and never shared.

When he returns, she is a shadow in a cabinet around a corner, breathing quick and shallow. One word, one sound, and she’s a dead thing. The death siren blares in her head, the heart pounding panic of it. No, breathe. Breathe and fade, breathe and fade. She can do this. She’ll know when it’s time.

He moves around his quarters, silent and unseen from her hiding place. She hears the refresher door close, the hum of the sonic shower. Her fingers curl into her palms, catch at the material of the officer trousers. A few worlds away, there’s a group of people willing her to succeed, willing her to fail, hoping she never comes back, hoping she delivers salvation. Save a civilisation, sacrifice a pawn. It was ever thus, she can hear her father say. Always hated that line.

(and what do you want?)

The refresher door opens, and a few seconds later the lights dim. She waits. Thinks of everywhere she’s been since she was fifteen and left the safety of her father’s ideals. All the running and fighting, the carving of her own soul into a shape fit to live with, to live in. There have been thugs and murderers and rapists and villains all the way, men and women, humans and creatures and droids. She’s survived some and escaped others, and now there is this. This weapon of smooth curves that spits out a beam of annihilation. And there is this man, father of a new genocide.

But she’s no hero. They always see the heroes coming, blaze of glory, a sun or two streaming behind them. She’s the aberration they won’t see coming. And the moment she steps out of hiding, she’s dead.

He is taken unawares. She registers it with the hyper-awareness of adrenaline, her knee in the small of his back, her blade tip at his nape, and the way his body forcibly relaxes into the bed. She breathes hard and fast, her mind racing and yet slowing too, working on so many different levels of awareness. The lights are coming up slow, having sensed her. She’s staring at the shape of his profile against the dark smooth pillow, at the way his grey brown hair feathers soft against the bright tip of her blade. She hasn’t drawn blood but becomes aware that she wants to, oh yes she wants to.

“Turn over.”

She moves back just enough to allow this, schooling her expression into street fighter steel as the covers ruck down and move between them. His shoulders are bare and smooth, so very freckled against the edges of a dark grey singlet. She looks at the revealed dip of his collarbone where the blade tip comes to rest, and then snaps her attention to his face. This imperial destroyer of worlds stares up at her, thoughtful and only a little puzzled. 

“Your weapon is flawed,” she says, starting to smile, genuinely amused now. “And no longer yours.”

His eyes brighten somehow. They are not dark as she once thought. In this light, they are deeply set and big in his tapering face. Blue and clear so clear and all wrong because they’re beautiful. 

“What makes you think you saw the right plans?” He says this and smiles. It’s that same singularly sweet expression. 

She grins right back. “The decoy plans weren’t decoy enough. You really should have tried harder.”

His smile fixes at the edges. “Yes.”

Back in control, she leans forward, pressing the blade just a little into his skin. Predator once more, loving the way he’s tensing now, displeasure to his fine thin mouth. 

“And this is your final heroic act, is it?” He’s calculating, she can see that behind his eyes. But the alarms in his quarters have been disabled, the droid is speeding ever further away with the right plans, and the doors are rigged anyway.

“Oh, I’m not the hero,” she tells him happily and cuts him.

It’s just a little flick, a bead of blood, enough to make him draw in an involuntary narrow breath, enough for him to be furious at his own pained reaction, and furious at her for eliciting it. Now she becomes aware of the lean body she straddles. 

“I’m the one they send in to do the secret dirty work,” she says almost absently, thinking about his hands fisting under the covers. They’re both distracted by their own thoughts, it shows in the way he replies: “Yes, I was that once.”

(strategic lying)

It’s a connection she doesn’t like, wanting to hurt him deeper. “Tell me where you keep your secrets,” she says, suddenly reckless, wanting a reason to hurt him.

His brows quirk up. He knows. “Do you need them?”

There was a man on a central planet city when she was seventeen and hadn’t yet learnt to feed herself properly. In the slums he’d found her, sheltered her, and then she’d found his secret horde of bruised and torn girls. Not just human, any female child would have done. The worst predators were always human. She hadn’t the pleasure of killing that one, too busy getting the survivors out of the burning building that came down on him.

But now.

(you’re the predator now.)

Now she ignores the chill of disgust and focuses on the dark glee. She is the feminine interruption to the male history he’s trying to write. She is the chaos he didn’t see until it was too late. He watches her smile, watches her as she carves a line down his throat, a trace of red against the moving swallow of muscle. His body betrays him. And she watches herself smooth her hand against the flat plane of his chest, like she’s just above her own body, lightheaded at this path she’s never taken.

“No. No, you’re right. I don’t.”

(look what you’ve become)

“I know what you are.”

She touches the tip of the knife to her belt buckle. “Undo this.” His eyes flick from hers down to her waist and then back up. The very stillness of his face is different now, now that he knows what she wants, now that it’s obvious to both of them. She hadn’t intended this, the interruption to her plan, but it’s what she wants right now, reckless and maybe interested in what he’ll do.

The lines of his face are set cold as he pulls his arms out from under the covers. Freckled all over right down to the strong wrists and blunt hands, he is implacable as he undoes her belt. Swift movements, a glance up at her face. She quirks a brow (keep going) and that calculating flicker moves across his expression. His hands slow, he runs the edge of his thumb along the concealed zipper of her officer trousers, and she feels a clench deep inside, raw responsive lust. There’s heat in the dim air now, heat between them (she doesn’t want it) and it’s a very simple thing to put the cold knife back at his nicked throat. He stiffens, a flare of blue outrage. (that she likes) “Off,” she says, indicating his singlet. He doesn’t respond, mutinous in his own hilarious way. “Go on, say it,” she coaxes. “Tell me I won’t get away with this. Tell me how your troopers and armies will hunt me down and slaughter me.”

His contempt is a beautiful complex expressive thing, all cool blue and shifting creases around his mouth and the corners of his eyes. And now his voice is that edge of uncivilised rough. “Get on with it.”

She wants him naked and gets it, the singlet and soft pajama bottoms crumpled beside the bed. Her officer top stays on. It’s enough that he stays still while she undoes her trousers and pulls them low enough. She looks at his body only enough to see he’s half hard. “Go on,” she says again, gesturing at his cock with her blade. There will be no use of female mouth or hand. His eyes grow even colder as he wraps his hand around his cock, watching her as he makes himself harder and longer. (a grower) He hates her now, this is perfect.

She fucks him with the knife against his throat. His hair falls across his forehead, stranded silver against deep brilliant eyes. She arches her back, riding him, and he doesn’t help, watches her face as she fucks down on him, her free hand braced on his bare chest. He doesn’t look at her body, his fists curled apart into the rumpled sheets. But he remains cockhard and deep up inside her, the skin between his throat and shoulder hot and getting hotter, his eyes intense and still calculating. Still thinking.

(look at me now daddy)

No surprise counterattack, no sudden unleashing of combat skills he hadn’t needed to use for a long time. A silent challenge, watching to see how far she’d go. 

So naturally she went all the deathdamned way. 

Burn, and burn everything down around her.

Then it’s not enough. Then she reaches her free hand towards his arm, makes him touch her bare hip. He dislikes that intensely which makes it all the better because his fingers are shaping themselves to the hard shape of bone. She rolls her lower back in a move she saw once in a pornographic holovid, and he snarls and grabs her other hip. Now she’s held like she wanted, now he’s arching into the blade and fucking up into her, all heat and fury and vicious vicious lust. He’s beautiful all chaotic and undone like this, all the colours and textures of him. She grabs his face with her hand, keeping the knife up against the widening cut, grabs him around the firm rounded chin, not knowing what she wants until his lashes lift high and he’s all clear wild eyes.

(knife and gaze and cunt)

He bleeds down into his collarbone as they move and move, thin red streaks across his thoroughly freckled tender skin. She smears her thumb and brings it to her mouth. 

Tastes. 

And he groans as he watches this, fucking up into her. The sound makes her clench around his cock, pleasure curling deep and rich and wet 

(this isn’t how it was supposed to go) 

and she’s falling forward onto him, the knife skittering away into the sheets. He rears up, catches her firm and hard, pulling her up against his chest, hooked on his cock. There’s the strength, lean muscles under smooth hot skin, his breath on her mouth 

(too intimate) 

and the keen brightness of his eyes. She has one hand clutching at his upper arm, the other groping at his nape for traction. Soft hair on her fingers and abruptly she wants to grab and pull.

So she does. His head snaps back and she bites at the shape of his chin, swarming him in every way because it’s her chaos, not his. He makes a sound deep in his throat, hands tightening on her back as his head tilts forward, and she finds her mouth touching his.

(no absolutely not)

If she recoils, he has her held fast. And that mouth curves with a challenge. He knows. But then he looks at her lips and something flickers again in his eyes. 

Enough. She puts her palm in the middle of his chest and pushes him down hard, taking his cock back into her, raking her ragged nails up his sternum. Except now she can’t stop looking at his mouth. So different from hers, so thin, the centre of his upper lip jutting out, minutely scarred. The vulnerability of it makes her savage, wanting to cut strips of skin away from him, wanting to tear the thin tender flesh of his lips with her teeth. It must show on her face because he takes his hand off her back and grabs at her hair, pulling her head down as he rams up against the place like lightning inside her. He makes her come on his cock (it wasn’t supposed to be like this) and fucks her through it. Her legs wrapped around him, they roll over, and he rears up over her, splaying her legs out. (she doesn’t like this position) His hands planted on either side of her head, he fucks her hard and watches her react to it. His face betrays him now, dark delight and glittering eyes, the glimpse of teeth and those parted reddened lips. She gasps, reaching up her hands to clutch at his neck, blood smeared across her palms, blood dripping onto her throat and chin. He drives deep into her over and over again, making her arch and cry out, skin all hot, and suddenly she remembers the blade somewhere close. So easy for him to find it and end this, end her.

(not today)

She pulls away and flips over, scrabbling through the covers for the knife. The shock of cold air on the back of her bare thighs becomes the shock heat of his hands. He reaches between her legs and grabs the ripe wet curve of her cunt (rude so good) like it’s his to claim (some slave he paid for) and she jabs her elbow back without thinking. A grunt and he catches her wrist, forces it down, forces her down into the sheets with the hard hot weight of his body. (yes this) She moans and pushes her cunt back against him, seeking and sighing with the push of his cock back into her. Now his breathing is rough against her ear, his arm slipping around to press against her throat. (rebel scum) She’s trapped between his hard forearm and his face buried in her hair, fucked into the bed, fucked wet and sore and good. Those are her moans in the snarled sheets, the sounds of her coming again and again on his cock, the sounds of his skin hitting hers. 

When she jabs her elbow back this time, it catches and topples him. She’s back on top, energised and wild again. Her thighs are slick with her come but it’s him now she wants to see undone. (this has gone on long enough) He grabs her and groans when she takes his sore reddened cock up into her. She leans both hands on his chest, all her weight in her wrists and sharp shoulders, fucking him ruthless, fucking him to a hard painful orgasm. He arches and comes with a silent snarl, fingers digging into her hipbones (bruises to wear), his hair spilling silver across his forehead. So uncontained now, spilling into her, spilling breath.

(the worst betrayal daddy)

“You’re sure?” he asks a few minutes later, his voice soft and rough. She’s watched him all this while, hands planted on either side of his head. Expressionless, she watches as he breathes in and says, “You’re sure you know what side you’re on?”

Jyn Erso smiles with particular sweetness and tells the Director of the Imperial Army:

“I’ve always known.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so you can stop reading there. That’s one ending. One possibility. Maybe she defected to the Empire and they ran off to rule their own little corner of the galaxy. Maybe she ruled the army with him. However you want to write that totally wonderful possibility.
> 
> Or you can click on to the next chapter for a very very short coda with a much darker ending. Consider yourself warned for the almost worst.


	2. (coda)

“I’ve always known,” she says and cuts his throat open, freckled skin spurting blood and revealing too much insides. It sprays onto her, warm and obscene, the birth of a new world. His death sounds are hideous and beautiful, the blue eyes furious and panicked at this ending.

She leans down and tastes his open lips, steals that last breath. 

When the troopers and droids finally get the doors open and burst into the sex-scented bedroom, she is drenched in the blood of a dead white man. And she knows she’s pretty when she smiles at their horror. 

(i’ve only ever been on my side.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that was Gone Girl from the one gifset I've seen and keep rewatching more times than I care to admit.
> 
> Yes, this is the first time I've written character death. And rape/dubcon. And nasty history stuff.
> 
> Also my first Jynnic, hooray!
> 
> Come talk to me at ennaih on Tumblr if you'd like!


End file.
